splix | FIC: Bequeathed [1/1]

Title: Bequeathed
Author: Alex [

splix]
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Boromir/Faramir
Summary: Consolation springs from great distress.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to their copyright holders.
Warning: Incest. Faramir is underage.
Feedback: Is treasured.
Thanks: To

kimberlite for her friendship and patient beta.
Comments: Inspired by this beautiful picture by The Theban Band:
http://www.squidge.org/~praxisters/lotr/Men/slides/2997.html

This is my first ever non-Ewan-fandom piece of fanfiction. I know not everyone on my flist will read it, but if you do, and you have an opinion, I would love to hear it. Thank you very much.

*

A jubilant silver flourish of trumpets rends the air,
heralding the return of Denethor to the White City,
but Boromir takes no joy in the triumphant sound as
once he did. The fragile peace that has lately settled
over the Citadel has fragmented; its customary
tangible disquiet has reappeared. The changed mood is
clear to all except the Steward himself, who seeks out
his son in a fever of homecoming ebullience.

Boromir has ignored his father's summons, but he knows
there will be no punishment forthcoming. There are
times when it is expedient to be the golden, shining
one, and this is such a time. He quickens his pace and
takes the stairs in threes, nodding curtly to the
guard at the top of the staircase, and makes his way
to the door of Faramir's chamber. Pressing his ear to
the thick wood, he strains for some telltale noise,
then taps. "Brother?"

The door creaks open almost immediately, and a
flushed, tear-stained face appears from within.

Boromir suppresses a faint grin -- Faramir has been
waiting for him, it seems -- then hearkens to his
purpose. "Did he speak to you?"

Faramir's chin, still childishly rounded, wobbles. New
tears gather on his feathery lashes. Then, he visibly
shakes himself, squaring his shoulders. His mouth
thins into a line too grim and stern for one so young.
Feigning indifference, he shrugs, then retreats into
his bedchamber, leaving Boromir to stay or depart as
he pleases. He steps to the window and takes refuge in
the complicated business of disentangling his sword
from its belt.

Compassion threads its way around Boromir's heart as
he sees gentle Faramir arrive at the implacable
conclusion: a son of Denethor should have little use
for tears. He steps into the room, closing the door
behind him. Slowly, his bootsoles soundless upon the
floor, he advances and rests a hand on Faramir's
shoulder. "He has many cares, Faramir. There are
stirrings in the East. The mountain burns ceaselessly;
it bodes ill for us all. You see how these matters
prey upon his mind."

"I do not know what it is I've done to arouse his ire,
Boromir. I...he..." He gives up the pretense of
unbuckling his sword. His shoulders slump in defeat;
his head is bowed forward.

Boromir damns himself for a thousand kinds of fool.
Faramir begs for comfort denied, and Boromir has given
him a stone. Fell winds from the East, the mountain of fire --
familiar woes since before Faramir lay in his cradle.
Poor excuses for the lack of a father's affection
toward his child, and only the younger child at that.
Boromir knows his father loves him best, but that
knowledge no longer brings him the deep and secret
pleasure and pride it had when he was a boy. Too often
have Faramir's eyes strayed to Denethor's hand resting
on Boromir's shoulder. Too often has Faramir's wounded
and longing countenance revealed itself all unbidden.

But Denethor remains impassive, even cruel in his
silent indifference to his younger son. He spends more
of his waking hours alone -- long intervals in the
Tower of Ecthelion, days without respite, and when he
emerges, his eyes are exhausted and troubled, his
temper short. Once tall, handsome, darkly resplendent,
he seems now withered and stooped, an old man before
his time. And ever does his favor rest upon his elder
son.

Thus has it been for years, and perhaps there is no
way to change that now. But Boromir understands this:
that if he is to blame for Faramir's woes, then he,
too, may be the only one who can shield Faramir from
their father's coldness and inexplicable growing wrath.
He can give his brother that little, at least. Not once
has Faramir expressed resentment or bitterness about
his lesser station; never has he behaved toward
Boromir with anything but affection and admiration.

"You've done nothing wrong, little brother," Boromir
murmurs, gathering Faramir into an embrace and kissing
the top of his head. His sweet, tender-hearted
brother, so innocent still. Of love, Boromir vows to
bring full measure. "Nothing. Shall I speak to him?"

Faramir turns and flings his arms around Boromir,
burying his face in the fine wool of Boromir's tunic.
"No." His voice is muffled. "Say nothing." When he
turns his face upward, it is damp and still mottled
with red, but less miserable than before. "He'll think
me more foolish than he already does." A faint smile
curves his mouth and lights his eyes.

Anxiety and distress dissolve in Boromir's throat,
well up, and pour forth in a peal of laughter. He
touches the tip of one gloved finger to Faramir's
freckled nose. "As if you could be foolish. Very well,
I hold my tongue."

"Don't leave," Faramir begs as Boromir begins to
detach himself from the embrace. "Please." His
fingers, more finely boned than Boromir's, wind around
a strand of his brother's golden hair. He rests his
head against Boromir's shoulder.

Boromir leans down and presses a kiss to Faramir's
neck. His lips pause against the rapid pulse of a vein
beneath smooth skin. Foolishly, helplessly, he kisses
the pulse again. How warm, how soft...he pulls his
brother closer, listening to the muted clink of mail
against velvet and wool, feeling the lean tautness of
Faramir's body. Desire arcs and crests.

He pulls back in shock. But Faramir's lips find his,
and they open like flowers in the sun. His mouth is
sweeter than any maiden's, and as arousing. He meets
his brother's eyes; they are wide and wondering, as
if he has been granted a glimpse of some astonishing
revelation.

Reeling, Boromir stumbles backward. This, this is his
means of protecting his brother -- wantonly defiling
him, as if he were any common trollop? Remorse and fear
become a hod of searing coals in his heart. He turns,
fleeing for the door, fumbling for the latch. His
fingers will not obey him. Cursing silently, he tears
off his glove and wraps his fingers about the handle.
All at once, another hand closes over his.

"You will leave me, brother -- now?" Pain strikes a
hard, bright glitter to the softly spoken words.

Boromir leans his forehead against the heavy wooden
door and closes his eyes with a sigh. He cannot deny
that he has, at times, desired Faramir, but it is a
desire deeply buried and never spoken; now it draws
his body and spirit like a bow. He has never consulted
his brother's wishes on the matter, nor has he
acknowledged the expression in Faramir's eyes that so
often have reflected his own. "I could not," he
whispers. "I could not take you all unwilling."

"And if I were not unwilling?" Faramir's hand brushes
a lock of hair behind Boromir's ear; his fingertips
trace its curve.

It is enough to undo him. Boromir pulls the bolt of
the door, locking it. He turns to Faramir and embraces
him, seeking his lips, reveling in their voluptuous
compliance. He kisses him deeply, winding his naked
fingers through Faramir's hair, holding him still.
Faramir's arms are around his neck, their bodies
pressed together. Feverishly, he nips at his brother's
jaw, his throat, licking and biting gently, then not
so gently.

Faramir returns the kisses, as eager, as heated as
Boromir. "The bed," he whispers. They make their way
toward it, shedding layers: gloves, weapons,
overtunics. Boots are tugged off and hastily flung
aside, shirts and breeches unlaced.

Now they yank bedclothes aside and fall upon the bed,
naked. Boromir is astride his brother, his heart
thudding unsteadily in his chest. Faramir is revealed
to him in all his youthful beauty. His fair skin has
the luster of pearl in the wavering sunlight, flushed
here and there with pink like the inside of a
seashell. He reaches down to touch a finger to
Faramir's mouth. Faramir grasps Boromir's wrist and
pulls the finger deeper, sucking on it. Boromir
groans. He is lost; he could not retreat even if he
wanted to.

Swiftly they resume their kisses, but it becomes clear
that Faramir yearns for more. His thighs are clamped
around Boromir's hips, and he rocks urgently against
his brother's body. "Boromir, please. Please."

Boromir hesitates, though his sex is hard and
straining with impatience. "You have never been taken
before."

"I want you to take me. Please." Faramir puts his
hands on Boromir's chest and pushes him back, far
enough so that Boromir can see his rigid sex, his open
thighs.

"I don't want to hurt you." Even as he speaks, Boromir
is pushing Faramir's legs further apart, then wetting
his fingers to thrust them inside Faramir's body. Need
has made him graceless and abrupt, driven too far to
be mindful of Faramir's comfort. Faramir winces, and
his face contracts in pain. "I'm sorry," Boromir
cries. "Sorry --"

"No -- no. Don't stop."

Boromir groans again, then pushes Faramir's legs up,
hooking them over his shoulders. He pushes in, his
hands locked on Faramir's hips, tilting them upward.
Faramir writhes beneath him, his expression still
pained. Boromir lunges forward, plowing in deeply,
burying himself to the hilt. The urgency of his need
increases. He pins Faramir to the bed, and in several
thrusts stabs his way to release. Collapsing heavily
against his brother, he lies still for long moments,
drifting in and out of sleep.

A gentle caress shaping the curves of his mouth rouses
Boromir to wakefulness. He sees his brother's wide
blue eyes, the red tinge of the hair spread upon the
pillow, and a tide of shame and remorse overcomes him.
He covers himself with tousled, pungent sheets, shamed
anew at the viscid fluid that streaks them both, and
buries his face in his hands. Bad enough, he thinks,
that he has taken his brother in a storm of heedless
passion, but he thought only of his own pleasure; it
is clear that Faramir has experienced none. What must
Faramir think of him? "Forgive me, little brother.
Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," Faramir replies, then
nestles closer to Boromir, pushing tangled and
sweating hair from his face. "You would not hurt me
for the world. I know this in my heart."

"But I have hurt you."

"I do not speak of that." Faramir takes Boromir's
hand. "Next time it will be better."

"You -- you wish for a next time?"

Faramir simply smiles, the steadfast trust and
clearsighted devotion in his eyes answer enough.
Boromir holds him fiercely, something immense dawning
on him, but faint as faraway music at the end of
night, so that he only dares grasp its slightest edge.
He will use all that is in his power to keep hurt from
the heart of his brother, to love him with his own.
Their lives will be taken free and shaped at will, and
not even their father's mysterious anger can change
that.

The afternoon sky fades into twilight as the sons of
Denethor succumb to sleep, lulled by the singing of
the wind.

End.